Constraints
by TheVelvetOverhead
Summary: The Master Frumentarii always thought himself different—superior. Him? Getting carried away by his most primal instincts? That was for beasts and degenerates. After all, he had successfully subdued his carnal desires. His actions were solely driven by reason and intellect. That is, until he met a certain Courier.


And there she was. "I'm Courier number Six. I have crawled out of my own grave and I'm looking for the man who shot me in the head. Who are you?", he remembered. Did he expect to find her? Well, it had been him who had come to The Strip to deliver the Mark of Caesar to her; it would be ridiculous to say otherwise. Even so, Vulpes Inculta hoped his visit would be hampered by… well, by something. Any stupidity, any impediment, any foolishness. Anything to stop feeling those damned cannibal butterflies in his stomach, devouring his insides.

She was surrounded by her stupid companions. He held his breath. Yeah, right; whatever. After all, the Courier was like a kid. An unbearable big baby that required constant attention and could not be left alone. An innocent and ridiculous creature who believed herself safe for having the protection of Ambassador Crocker.

Vulpes shifted in his place, uncomfortable, and gritted his teeth. The only thing that was not safe was his own back, he could be sure of that. He cleared his throat and frowned, and then clicked his tongue and twisted his lips, trying to free himself from the tension that had built up in his shoulders.

So, there he was, in that den of corruption known as Gomorrah, with his back to the bar and his elbows resting on the grimy surface, watching from a distance. "I am Vulpes Inculta, of Caesar's Legion. I serve my master as the greatest of his Frumentarii," he remembered answering back then. The mere thought of Nipton made the skin tingle on the back of his neck. He wrinkled his nose and stared at his drink. He took a sip and suppressed any emotion that might give him away. In fact, in that moment, his face held no expression whatsoever. Neither disgust nor repulsion. Not even that attractive and charming smile of his full of confidence; that one that said "I am Vulpes Inculta and I always get what I want."

He was almost ready to think of another strategy to be alone with her, when the young woman got up from her seat and went to the bathroom. Vulpes did likewise and followed her, getting going.

* * *

"You shouldn't be here," she spat, turning around and looking away from her reflection as she watched the figure blocking the front door. "It's the women's sink. You don't know how to read or what?"

"How about you? Do you? I would be very surprised, considering what an illiterate whore you are," he barked back, showing his fans. "Of the NCR", he failed to add. He didn't consider it necessary though, it was already implicit in the venom that had flooded out his words.

The Courier wrinkled her nose, drawing an expression of displeasure on her face as if she was smelling shit. Nothing could be further from reality however; that decadent atmosphere reeked of cigarettes, sweat and sex. Outside the tiny toilet, the lounge was capped with voices trying to be heard, orders for booze, and catcalls at some of the girls dancing. It was disgusting and Vulpes tried to hold his breath. But just because he loathed that stench, okay? Not because he had been absorbed by her, watching how she re arranged her tiny and delicate headdress—her pale skin in contrast with her dark hair like midnight, falling like a waterfall down her long back.

Of course not.

"Well shit, I expected a more insightful comment," she rolled her eyes. "Especially coming from _Seeezar's_ untarnished and greatest _fruuumentaariiii_."

She mimicked him, remembering their encounter in Nipton and speaking in the most atrocious accent he had even heard. Whether it was deliberate or not, he didn't care. In fact, Vulpes didn't even flinch at the annoying mockery. Instead, he leaned against the door, blocking the entrance with his arms crossed. All without uttering a single word. He had chosen to ignore her along with her witless comments.

"The eyes of the mighty Caesar are upon you. He admires your accomplishments and bestows upon you the exceptional gift of his Mark," he spoke, using a dull, monotonous tone of voice. He then reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, searching for the precious silver chain. "My Lord requires your presence at his camp, at Fortification Hill. This Mark will guarantee your safe-conduct through—"

"And that's it? Really?" she cut him off, still fixing her hair as she did. "Did you follow me to the bathroom just to spout nonsense?" she huffed and took a lipstick from her handbag. "No. No fucking way," she said, her gaze fixed on the rouge of her mouth, "and if you don't have anything else to say, you know where the door is."

Vulpes opened his mouth and closed it again, looking exactly like what he indeed was: a fish out of water. He tried to voice his thoughts without success. Now confusion reigned in him. Or was it anger? He clenched his fists, placating the torrent of emotions that welled up in his chest. What the hell was he doing? And why had the Courier refused his gift? He had been pretty confident with his invitation, but as soon as the girl had answered he cursed under his breath. "Shit," he had cursed, that's what he had just done. He had made use of the inferior language of the profligates. "Shit," he repeated. And it made him want to hit himself. Since when had he become so vulgar?

He looked at himself, contemplating his reflection in the mirror. Who he was or what he was doing there was no longer important; Vulpes could only pay attention to those lips—so thick, full and swollen—as if someone had sunk their fist into her mouth.

The legionnaire narrowed his eyes and licked his lips. Well, he wished he hadn't, he really did, but the sudden moisture on them indicated otherwise. He snorted, inhaling profusely through his nose, and returned to reality. Meanwhile, the Courier continued ignoring him. Was she stupid? Didn't she understand her own language or what? Well, anyway, it became clear to him that she had the same intelligence and attention span as a four-year-old child.

Finally, he sat up and approached her silently, as if she were his prey and he wanted to pick her bones clean. It made him want to hit her, to stamp her face against the mirror and tear it to shreds so he could stop looking at the vivid expression on his face. Like that, without any consideration. Overall, first impressions had already caused havoc among them. In the end, he left the Courier alone, allowing her to continue putting on makeup like a cheap whore if that made her happy.

"Don't make me repeat it again, woman," he grabbed her by the wrist and turned her body in a hundred and eighty-degree arc. The Courier had to place her free palm in the sink to avoid falling. "Caesar will not extend his mercy a second time."

"And what if I say no again? Then what?" she clenched her fist, digging her nails into her own skin. She gave him a defiant look and stood up, approaching him—rebuking him, challenging him—forcing him to strengthen his grip. The Courier didn't soften her expression, not even an iota. She shortened the distance between them, her torso almost touching his and her perfume teasing his nostrils. _Two could play that game_ , she seemed to think with that provocation. "What do you plan to do then, _oh greatest Inculta_?"

The question was clear and simple, but the answer was even more so. **Nothing**. He couldn't do anything about it. Worst of all? She knew it; she had already given away his game. Caesar wanted her in one piece, alive and kicking. And Vulpes couldn't do anything, even if he wanted to. At least for now.

He separated the lips a few millimetres with extreme difficulty. His face had been reduced to a formless grimace and his mouth was dry. He was breathing in fits and starts, the low rush of his breath mingling with her own. Vulpes lowered his gaze and found that the darkened pools of the Courier's heavy-lidded eyes were locked on his own.

"You make me want to kiss you and spit you in the face at the same time," he groaned, his cold eyes fixed on those grotesque—and so terrible appetizing—lips. "Both options are equally unpleasant for me."

His hand sought hers. And she gave in, intertwining her fingers with his, feeling them strong and warm. She blinked and parted her lips. And so, for a moment, the Courier believed that something was going to break inside her and that she could close her eyes to her own convictions, to those that had forged her. She blinked again, twice, and looked down upon noticing cold metal against her palm. She felt his fingers clutching her fist, forcing her to accept the damned Mark.

He breathed against her lips and their chests touched. He let her go, pulling away from her immediately.

"Caesar awaits. And his patience is not infinite. Do not forget."

He left the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. His nostrils flared with rage. He proceeded to go somewhere else that was not full of whores.


End file.
